


The Gold-Eaters Disease

by ColePike



Category: Jack West Jr Series - Matthew Reilly, REILLY Matthew - Works, Scarecrow Series - Matthew Reilly, Temple - Matthew Reilly
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 10:09:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5782078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColePike/pseuds/ColePike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hernando would murder, plunder, pillage, burn - until he had everything and more. And once he was finished, he would sit like a god upon his throne of riches, as the gold flowed over the corpses beneath, and smothered the stench of their putrefying flesh.</p><p>Santiago is afraid the disease his fellow country-men have has spread to him. But he wants something far more valuable then gold. </p><p>Set a few years after Renco had put the idol back in the temple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gold-Eaters Disease

Sometimes when Alberto Santiago sees Renco lying there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with each flutter of breath -he wants him so badly it feels like he must be dying. He wants to lie beside him, hold him close, kiss him, stroke his hair, breathe him in until there's nothing left.

Sometimes he wonders what's stopping him. Perhaps it was the horrendous acts of his fellow country-men.

Nothing ever stopped them before. If they had truly wanted it.

Not armies or oceans, friendship or faith. When there was something they wanted, they reached out, and they took it. No matter who suffered, no matter who died - they would have it. They been ruthless at times. Cunning. They had stretched their fingers across the world bit by bit until the empire had become more vast and more powerful than Rome had ever been. They had conquered almost all of South America, Central America, and even parts of Africa. The conquistadors had swept through jungles with muskets and blades, silver tongues and alien diseases. They had crushed dozens of civilizations to dust beneath armoured fists. The Incas now in ruins.

The Spaniards, particularly Hernandos’, greed was without measure.

He would murder, plunder, pillage, burn—until he had everything and more.

And once he was finished, he would sit like a god upon his throne of riches, drinking blood from a jewelled goblet as the gold flowed over the corpses beneath, and smothered the stench of their putrefying flesh.

Sometimes Santiago still has nightmares about it.

About the monster Hernando was, who would slaughter thousands for a single idol, and hold it against his chest while he bathed in their blood. He'd been infected with something ghastly, something cold and cruel and without empathy. He'd been vain and petty, mirthless and empty, swallowing gold like it was water—like he would die if he did not have it. Nothing withstood his ugliness, savagery, and insatiable greed. 

Santiago was afraid he could become him – after all they were of the same blood. He could be a gold-eater, but for a different prize. Something far more valuable to him.

"I and my companions suffer from a disease of the heart," he had once said to Renco, "Which can be cured only with gold."

It was a disease. One that had stopped their hearts from beating, set an empty, sucking pit in its place, and stained their eyes green with envy. Renco had been wrong. Gold could not cure it. Gold filled the void for a time. But soon it would all be sucked away, needing only more to feed on. So they would press forward— eagerly, hungrily—in search of something to satisfy their revenging need.

Santiago felt he needed something to satisfy the maw of his hollow heart. And he was afraid of the lengths he would go to.

For now he knows—there is no cure.

Once you've had a taste of power, of wealth and riches—once you've killed, crushed human skulls beneath your heel, cut jewellery from the corpses you have mutilated, and adorned yourself like some sick, vain, strutting peacock—you can never forget it. You will always have a hole inside your heart that screams to be filled with the fortunes of others. You will never be truly satisfied in life.

Santiago had tried so hard to forget the misdeeds of his people. How they so enjoyed the pleasure of conquest and victory—the feel of gold and silver sliding through their fingers, the taste of red wine, red blood, on their tongues—but he never could.

Perhaps this disease had never controlled him - oh no. That isn't it at all. He is relatively sane in comparison. Healthy. Whole. His mind is clear and his eyes unclouded. But there are times when his thoughts will wander towards the past, and his fingers twitch, in perhaps the same way the gold-eaters had searched for the cold, smooth touch of metal.

But no - his heart is burning for something more.

He knows that the void can never be closed, so he has to be careful—so, so careful—not to make a mistake, not to take a step backwards and follow in the footsteps of this brothers, not to start becoming them.

So even with Renco lying there, with only the twisted white sheets to cover his body, and Santiago standing in the doorway, his green eyes bleeding black, he doesn't dare step forward, for fear of falling back so much farther. He would rather die inside every night for the remainder of his days than claim the one thing he wants more than life itself, and succumb to the disease.

Because he knows that this time there would be no turning back.

**Author's Note:**

> I finally re-read Temple by Matthew Reilly after years - such a good book! And I totally thought Renco and Santiago would be a thing but nah.


End file.
